Gus has always demonstrated dramatic leanings. The boy can scream. He screams when you change his diaper, because, damn you, woman, YOU ARE WASTING HIS TIME. When you put him to bed before he is absolutely ready, he will clutch the bars of his crib, eyes wide, knuckles white, and wail like a lover scorned.But last night was different. And according to the pediatrician, different is bad. You want him to be the same, see? Like, okay, he's vomiting bile all over your floor, but really he's the same old Gus, just a sick Gus. It's when he starts acting DIFFERENT---like a baby other than Gus---that you can wake the doctor up at two in the morning. So, last night I'd say he was acting like someone other than Gus. Someone like, I don't know, THE SPAWN OF SATAN.He woke up shrieking and rolling his eyes as if he were drowning naked in a pit of molten lava. He writhed and wriggled out of my arms, like I was the one who encouraged him to go skinny dipping in that flaming pit of hell. We could do nothing to calm him.I stuck a thermometer in his ear and started considering the possibilities: A quadruple hernia? A ruptured appendix? A heart attack? An aneurysm? What in the WORLD could make a baby scream like that?It was raisins.Plump, juicy, California raisins.According to Larry, our sole witness, there were 50 or so.Completely in tact.In this morning's poopy diaper."If I washed them off they'd be good as new," Larry said.Those wrinkled bastards.